Of Oaths and Peacekeepers
by Kravor
Summary: As Svernguard burns, the Warden turns to Mercy, his lover, for answers.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: An idea that's been rolling around in my head since finishing the campaign, so I decided to put it in writing. Let me know what you think!

I may expand this to a two-shot if enough people are interested.

Kravor

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She found him atop the highest point in Svernguard, just outside the burning ruins of the Great Hall. The small plateau gave a fine view of the surrounding township, and the large courtyard below had hosted citizens and traders as life had moved through the settlement. Once it would have been beautiful, in a rustic sort of way. Looking closely, one could still make out the intricate carving on sturdy wooden doors, and the remains of signs proclaiming everything from arms and armor to a warm meal and a soft bed. Merchants from far and wide would have braved the persistent snows to set up shop and hawk their wares. Men and women of all ages would have browsed through everything from iron nails to cured meats, the warriors gravitating toward all manner of arms and armor while womenfolk would purchase and barter for foodstuffs and household items. Slaves would have moved fine furs and barrels of sweet mead through the streets, and children would have laughed and played in the snow.

Then the Legion came.

Now, abandoned, empty stalls littered the plaza, the wares long since taken with the fleeing merchants or looted by opportunistic Legionaries. Fruits plundered far to the south lay trampled beside broken jars of spices from the Dawn Empire, mixing with blood and mud to create a revolting mixture that clung to one's boots.

She ignored the filth on her boots as she did the burning air, choked with ash and embers, that stung her eyes as she strode forward. The children were gone, the slaves had been rounded up or slain alongside their masters, and the warriors lay cold and unmoving with their womenfolk in the softly-falling snow. The last of the Warborn defenders were being put to the sword, and she thought to seek out her Warden, if only to ensure he was unharmed.

Not that she would ever admit that, of course.

She saw Gudmundr's body first, laying broken at the Warden's feet in a patch of crimson snow. The Warlord's thick leather armor and large furs were torn and ragged, and dark lacerations lay across his body. His wounds still wept ichor slightly, meaning the body was still warm. She spared the corpse only another moment before looking to the other figure in the open space.

The victor himself was turned toward the burning township, the raging fires below them presenting an eerie picture of a lone knight standing before a wall of smoke and flames. What she could make out of his armor in the light of the fires was dented and bloodied, whether his or his foe's, she knew not. His longsword, the one he had long since claimed from that traitor, hung from his left hand, gripped around the pommel tightly.

She wasn't surprised when he heard her approach; he had long gotten used to her light step.

"Why are we here, Mercy?".

If she was surprised at the question, she did not show it, her metal mask fixed on the last of the buildings being put to the torch. She ignored the burning at the back of her throat from the acrid smoke that permeated the air, tasting ash on the tip of her tongue.

"You know why", she said simply, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

His helmet turned toward her slightly, enough to make out the large slash in the metal directly over his nose. "You never stop lying, do you, Peacekeeper?".

Not the first time she'd been accused of such, but when he said it...

Ancient wood cracked and splintered, stone crumbled and fell as the structure behind them continued to collapse in upon itself. A fresh wave of glowing embers swirled into the air, an almost beautiful sight despite its origin. The two Legionaries did not notice.

"I saw what was in these buildings. Grains, meats, fruits, salt…".

She remained quiet.

"This isn't a fortress". It wasn't a question, and she didn't bother trying to rebuke it.

"There are no armories, nor barracks, only granaries and storehouses here. We're not stopping them from raiding, we're stopping them feeding themselves".

His voice was low and curt, barely audible over the crackling fires. It didn't stop her adrenaline from spiking suddenly, as a primitive part of her spurned her fight-or-flight instinct. Her hands had tightened unconsciously around her blades, her knuckles white under her gloves.

"I'll ask one more time, Peacekeeper. Why are we here?".

Still, silence.

"Damn you, Mercy, _say something_!" He suddenly roared, finally turning toward her.

"To fight the Warborn" she finally replied, sounding far more confident than she felt at the moment.

"To fight the _Warborn_ , Mercy!?" He strode up to her, towering over her in his burnished steel plate.

"Do you mean the paltry twoscore warriors we killed!? Or do you mean the women and _children_ that took up arms against us!?".

Her lips were drawn in a thin line as she met his gaze, at least as much as she could with them both wearing helms. The eye-slits in his helm remained dark, despite the abundant firelight.

"I killed women and children, and for what? So that we could burn their stockpiles and let them starve to death!?" He continued to rage.

"Not… quite" she murmured.

He apparently heard somehow, as he was suddenly seizing her by the shoulders roughly. His metal gauntlets dug into her arms uncomfortably and she froze at the sudden contact. She was still… unused to such closeness, and there was no affection in this. Not this time.

"What do you mean 'Not quite'?" he demanded, drawing out each word as if they might run away if he spoke too fast.

She regained her senses and tried to shove him off with more force than she'd intended. He let his arms drop but didn't budge, forcing her to take several steps back to create some distance between them.

"We burn all but enough for a clan or two. They fight over the rest". She gazed at the ruined Hall, unwilling to meet his piercing stare.

He stood silent for a long moment, unmoving in the dirty snow and ash-choked air. "This won't end their attacks on Legion lands", he said slowly. "This will increase them. They'll be desperate now. They either raid or starve, and the Warborn have never laid down and died. More of our peoples will die now".

He suddenly clawed at his neck with his free hand and tore off his Legion pendant as she remained silent. He glared at it before shifting his gaze to her again. She had turned back to him as he spoke, unwilling to offer any confirmation or denial. She could just barely make out his eyes through the firelight and slits of his helm, and with a sinking feeling she realized this wasn't him. Not as she had known him up until now. Those warm, brown eyes she'd come to know had been replaced with the cold, hard eyes of something else.

"I cannot- _I will not_ do this. Apollyon's insanity has gone too far! I took an oath, to fight for peace" he hissed, shaking the length of metal at her, "Not for this-this madness!".

He abruptly turned and lobbed the wrought-iron pendant down onto the streets below, watching into disappear into the smoke of dozens of fires. For long minutes he simply stared unseeing into the orange flames, hands in fists at his sides. _Fire and smoke, orange and black. The Blackstone Legion's colors, funnily enough._

A part of him idly wondered if he'd feel a blade sliding into his back any second now. The woman he'd loved- _foolishly_ loved, had played him for a fool, just like Apollyon had. Stone had been right, truly. He'd been a madman to think anything except wary distance with a Peacekeeper would turn out well. These were no great tales of valiant Knights and beautiful damsels. These were the times of murderers and madmen.

The Legion he had sworn to was in the grip of a madwoman, obsessed with sowing war to _draw out the wolves_. The image of a snarling wolf over a castle tower came into his mind's eye, the symbol of his house before he had joined the Order years ago. He could be a wolf, he _would_ be a wolf.

The wolf that would tear out the throat of the Blackstone Legion.

The silence was broken only by the distant sounds of looting and jeering, and the crackling flames around them.

"I swore an oath, and so did you" he finally muttered.

He turned away from the sight at last, back toward the Blackstone encampment a half-league away.

He'd made it a dozen feet when he suddenly gasped in pain and staggered, leaning heavily on his sword to keep his balance. He half-expected a dagger in his belly, but looking down at his bloodied torso only reminded him of his wounds, gone from a bearable ache to burning agony so quickly.

Mercy made to assist him, laying one slender arm on his shoulder when he violently pushed her away, nearly knocking her over. Her yelp of surprise received only a grunt of pain and effort in reply as he continued on his way, slower and more carefully now. He did not explain or apologize, not even bothering to spare her a glance as he left.

"Don't come after me, Peacekeeper". His words were quick and venomous, his message clear, as he limped down to the burning streets and did not look back.

How she could feel so cold amongst all the flames, she did not know.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Finally got back to this. Apologies for the wait, for the longest time I wasn't sure how to do a second part. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and if you do, drop a review! They are always appreciated.

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His world has devolved into clashing steel and cries of pain, his mind fruitlessly trying to keep up with his surroundings even as his body fell back on his training. The never-ending cacophony of ringing steel continued undaunted, echoing throughout the stone corridor he'd found himself in.

A desperate slash at his head was easily knocked aside. Before his mind knew it, he had skewered the man on his longsword, the steel punching through mail, gambeson, skin, and bone with equal ease. The man only gurgled and died; eyes wide in surprise at the hole in his chest as the Warden unceremoniously pushed him off the blade.

The man's body hadn't even hit the ground yet when a glancing thrust speared at the Warden's back, sending him stumbling forward into the wall and luckily out of the follow-up swing. The Warden ignored the pain, another addition to the slowly-growing agony in his body and turned with a low sweep aimed at his new opponent's legs. This one, another viking, had kept his shield up to protect his torso, and didn't recognize the Warden's target until the metal bit deep into an ankle. With a howl he went down, followed quickly by the point of the Warden's sword.

Sucking in deep gulps of air and blinking the sweat dripping into his eyes, the Lord Warden of the reborn Iron Legion leaned heavily on his longsword for a moment before rising to his feet once more. The hallway was clear save for two of his own legionnaires, who quickly pushed to the other end of the hallway after he'd waved them ahead. He allowed himself only a few more moments to get his wind back before picking his way after them, his boots covered in gore from the multitude of bodies covering the floor. There was no earthen ground to absorb the crimson fluid, leaving it to collect and congeal in a macabre carpet atop the stone floor.

He blinked away the sudden brightness as he emerged into what looked like a small training courtyard nestled somewhere in the Blackstone fortress. The place, as they knew, was a veritable maze of battlements, chokepoints, and killing zones that formed multiple tiers against the mountain it had been partially built into. All but impenetrable to the Iron Legion, but they were not alone in this fight.

The thought of _the enemy of my enemy is my friend_ was quickly dashed as one of his legionnaires suddenly collided with the wall to his left, something audibly cracking as the man collapsed bonelessly to the ground. He did not get up.

A Shugoki, covered in spikes and dark wooden armor, stood in the center of the courtyard amidst at least a dozen corpses of Chosen, Warborn, and Legionnaires of both sides. His mask, styled into the shape of a snarling red demon with two tusks jutting from its lower lip, was turned toward the second legionnaire, the man feebly batting at the thick arm holding him in the air by his throat.

The man's protests stopped as the large Chosen jerked his meaty grip with a harsh _snap_. Dropping the body carelessly, the Shugoki turned to the Lord Warden and jeered something in Japanese. Not bothering to answer, the Warden raised his blade and charged.

He was quickly put on the defensive from his larger opponent's crushing blows, the hunk of metal-plated wood feeling much like getting hit with a tree. He raised his blade to parry a solid blow to his head, but instead the Samurai dropped it to his side and rushed in with both arms wide to grab him. Recognizing it too late to react, the Warden was lifted bodily up to the man's shoulders before being tossed like a sack of grain over the Shugoki's head.

Landing on his side only aggravated his accumulated wounds, causing him to hiss in pain, barely managing to dodge a heavy swing that would have pulped his head. He staggered to his feet as fast as he could, blindly groping for his sword, lost in his abrupt flight through the air. The Shugoki laughs something as the large man steps forward, massive club raised for the killing blow.

The killing blow that never came.

There's a moment of confusion as a small figure drops from a balcony above them onto the Shugoki's wide shoulders. The Samurai raising his head to peer up provided the perfect opening for a dagger to snake down and cut open his throat, his savior lightly jumping off the man as he dumbly pawed at his river of blood escaping his neck. Surprisingly, the ground doesn't shake when he finally falls.

The Warden's attention quickly turns to his rescuer as she flicks the blood off her blade. The Peacekeeper's habit leaves him with a strange mix of elation and apprehension, to say nothing of the way she turns to him with her blades still at the ready. He tries to find something to say, some way to lighten the tension and make everything better, but he knows deep down that the time for jokes is long past. He settles for watching her and wondering what happens next.

The answer comes sooner than he'd thought as Mercy abruptly kicks his sword to his feet. He looks down blankly at the blade and stiffly picks it up, and when he looks to her again, she's dropped into that familiar fighting stance.

 _Ah._

He looks down at his blade again, covered in blood and gore. His boots, covered in blood and gore. The ground, covered in blood and gore.

And drops his sword to the blood-slicked stone beneath his feet with a _clang._

The sound echoes through the small courtyard with all the finality of a funeral bell. Mercy straightens slightly, but he can't tell what she's thinking with her mask on. He finds himself wishing it was off.

"Pick up your sword." She hisses suddenly.

Instead, his helm, dented and bloodied, joins his blade in the ground. The humid air is little relief to his sweat-soaked skin, but a cool breeze from somewhere is most welcome.

"No," he whispers, gazing at his bloodied gauntlets and wondering if he should remove those too.

Mercy, standing tall again, takes a threatening step. "I said _pick up your sword."_ Her shortsword's tip is pointed at his throat.

"No." He repeats, looking into where he knows her eyes are. "If you're going to strike me down, then… do it. I'm tired of fighting."

"I don't care. Pick up your sword, _coward_."

"I'm not going to fight you, Mercy."

She makes an uncharacteristic noise of frustration and marches up to him, tucking one of her blades in her belt to pick up his and press it into his chest. When he doesn't move to grab it, she tries to force his fingers around the hilt, cursing at him when his fingers remain stubbornly limp. He allows his free hand to rise, to gently cup the side of her head. For a moment she pauses, takes a shuddering breath, and he finds himself thinking of her lips before she suddenly bats his hand away and shoves him away with a frustrated cry.

He falls to his knees, not bothering to get back up.

"Why won't you fight!?" she rages, muscles taut like a bowstring as she stands over him.

"Fight for what?"

She pauses, deflating slightly, as if surprised.

"Fighting got me here today. A failure." He says, looking through her, not at her.

"I failed as a contracted mercenary to Daubeny. I failed as a Warden when I followed Apollyon. I failed as Lord Warden when I couldn't stop the combined armies of three peoples falling to senseless battle." At the last admission, he gestured around them at the bodies.

"But most of all, I failed you. Abandoned you when I should have been better. More understanding. More forgiving."

He can see the way her blades tremble in her hands. "My story is a litany of failures. And if this is how it ends, well… for what it's worth… I'm glad it's you, Mercy."

She doesn't bother to hide her shuddering breath now, something between a sob and a cry that escapes her lips.

"Stand and fight. Don't-don't die like _this_!" She hisses, but there's no venom this time, just a desperation that's too late now.

He bowed his head. "Kill me, Peacekeeper."

"Fight, damn you!" She screamed this time, raising her blades into the air.

He doesn't react, even when her steel slashes toward his throat. Before the blades can connect with his exposed flesh, they are suddenly clattering the ground and her arms are on his shoulders, violently shaking him.

"Why don't-won't you just… just…" She sobs into his plate now, and he can only lean his head against the top of her hood.

"I'm sorry, Mercy." This is a good ending, he thinks. Death now would not be so bad.

"Aurelia," she whispers.

He blinks. "What?"

"Aurelia. That's my name-the one my mother gave me."

He's not sure what to say, or if it will matter soon. His wounds are still weeping his lifeblood through the cracks and tears in his armor, and his limbs feel more lethargic with each passing second. And when did it get so cold?

"I love you, Aurelia," he says, without thinking.

He can feel her tense suddenly, and she pulls back to look him in the eye, her hands still on his shoulders. The only thing keeping him upright, probably.

Her mask is quickly torn off and she cups his bruised face, searching his eyes. He didn't know what she was looking for, or – oh. Right.

Neither of them had ever gone there. Said… that. To speak of love… it had been something they had never mentioned, always skirting around it with awkward silences or hasty retreats. The one word that maybe neither of them could come back from, the one word with the power to shatter their relationship into a hundred thousand pieces or reforge into something… different.

Suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He managed a weak smile for her, before she suddenly crashes her lips against his. He's dying, covered in blood and sweat and grime like her – and yet he finds he wouldn't change this moment for anything.

It's ruined as he coughs, of course, managing to turn his head before the flecks of blood and spittle spatter on her. Not terribly, romantic, that. Her brows knit in concern, and she examines him more critically, sucking in a breath at the extent of his wounds, even hidden as they are by his armor. She fusses over him, pulling out a strip of cloth from a pouch and wiping away the filth on is face. He closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of her touch, when a slap abruptly brings him back to reality.

She gives him a piercing glare. "Eyes open, Caius. I'm not losing you. Not-not again."

Her look is equal parts pleading, desperation, and commanding, and he finds himself smiling.

"For you, my love, anything."


End file.
